freeze
by TaoGrace
Summary: drabbles for gruvia week, and not only. angst galore, because relationships between ice mages and rain women are quite messy.
1. quiet

The first time she sees him; this new version of him, she is silent, her soul is empty, devoid of emotion. Eyes scan carefully over handsome features, _familiar _features, _but how could dark eyes be so cold_, she wonders.

She takes him in, the wide shoulders and careless posture, the angles of his jaw and curve of his neck, all of them crash and she wants to laugh, because it _is him_, and she hasn't laid eyes on him for six months; and cry, because there is nothing of the oh-so playful familiarity she is used to. This man could be a stranger, for all she knows.

But he can't be, her mind reasons. Her heart agrees, hitting her ribs again and again, until Juvia finds it hard to breathe. She is still weak, her illness had yet to pass and she brings the rain with her, she brings it in her search for dry warmth.

She only finds the bottom of the sea.

But her disappointment is quiet, her anguish even more so. She doesn't know whether there are raindrops on her face, or if they're tears and her small, almost inexistent sobs are met with frozen indifference.

This man, this man scares her. For so long she's only felt love and sadness, and they've been her companions for most of her life. Occasionally, there was hatred, jealousy, sometimes even the smallest drop of despair. But never fear.

But this _is_ fear, this sinking feeling, and she finds the rain go colder and colder by the second, chilling her feverish body. The man with slicked back hair and dark marks on his skin invokes fear. There is an image, an image beyond those cold, dead eyes, an image of a laughing man, whose arms were strong and whose embrace was safe and whose soul had chased away the rain clouds, _but he's gone._

The irony hits her, much like the hate in his eyes, quietly. It is as if they had never met, as if those years were for nothing, they were back at the start, with no love lost there.

And then, there is no more thunder, no more lightning; _no_m there is no unusual anymore. There is only the steady drip-drop of falling rain, ever-flowing and monotonous. There are only rain clouds, and they are pouring, and yes, _the world is gray again._

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**A/N: soo, drabbles for gruvia week.**

**I dunno if i'll manage to write for all the prompts, but whatevs. prompt: quiet**


	2. demons

There's a darkness coming out from inside him, all-consuming and never-ending, and this darkness frightens him more than the hollow, dead shape his father had been in his bloodied arms, more that Ur's figurine of ice and more than death, sheer and simple death laughing in front of him.

This might just be because none of his biggest, darkest fears ever came from inside, no, they were all consequences of life-ruining hazards, and they were far too many for someone so young, he reasoned. But life doesn't care about the young 'uns, always ready for adventure and hungry for death and enemies to best.

Maybe the fact that he can stand the thought of neither anymore shows that he is growing old.

But he can't back down, not yet, not when the oath he swore is all but carved in the flesh of his arm, burning through muscle and sinew and reaching his bones and soul. He won't ever give up, the mere thought of it makes him sick to his stomach, the memories of family and warmth and blood flooding his senses, and he feels like gagging, because the scent of blood never quite leaves his nostrils anymore.

His eyes are burning in the dark, his sheets too hot, they suffocate him, the walls fucking suffocate him and he needs air.

Gray scrambles blindly through the house, kicking doors open and when the cold night air hits his bare skin, he wants to scream, because _it's not enough._

There's a voice, a quiet, calm voice in his head and that voice demands freedom, it demands endless fields of ice and snow storms, like the ones back home, in the frozen North, not this stifling and pathetic excuse of lukewarm air.

"Gray!"

He turns around at the sound of his name. The girl he shares his days with stares at him worriedly, and she looks at him like he's a wild beast she doesn't know how to approach. He barely keeps himself from lashing out at her, when he looks around.

The clearing their cozy cottage inhabits is covered in a delicate sheet of ice, making it glow in the moonlight. Crystals float across the air, reminiscent of snow flakes, but they aren't quite as pure.

He's scaring her, Gray realizes.

They don't usually talk that much. There's not that much they want to express which must be said in words. Their days are mostly quiet and full, full of training, and sparing and wandering out and about, but they're peaceful, and now he's destroyed another important thing in his life.

There's no need for words even now, not when her blue-blue eyes widen in his direction, and he's expecting her to run back inside, but she's beaten him to it, and running barefoot towards him.

Her breath comes in warm puffs, trembling in the frozen air. Her arms go around him and he marvels at her ability not to flinch. His body is covered in soft bits of ice, his pale skin turning bluish because of the cold. Life goes through blue and green lines, the insides of his wrists starting to melt when they come in contact with her shoulder blades. _She probably feels like death embraces her_, the voice in his head whispers.

There is nothing like the fear that encompasses him then, the fear of her death, because there is already so much he's lost, so many bodies, so much blood, too much ice, and the blue in her soul is very likely the only thing keeping him remotely sane.

She exhales softly, a hand above his hair, caressing his head like he's a child, another around his shoulder, and she's _warm_, she's warm in this cold abyss, and she whispers sweet nothings in his ear, calming hushes and loving, oh-so-loving words that fit perfectly with the quiet rasp of her voice; so he loses himself in her, burrowed in her embrace.

He won't lose this for the world.

He doesn't realize he's closed his eyes, if only just briefly. He pulls back from her embrace and sees the ice melting from the trees and leaves and he's thankful for having her.

She's looking at him, and through the haze of his brain, he recognizes worry and it pains him as much as it pains her. The voice says she needn't worry, _he's in good hands_, but these hands keep gnawing at his heart, stealing it from her, and he doesn't think they're allowed to do that, not with the way her delicate brows furrow and her thin mouth curls.

There's barely any softness there, this isn't the first time she's found him like this, covering himself and everything around him in ice, but it's the last, and there's fear in her eyes, and he hates himself a tad bit more because of it.

A cold hand raises up to her face, fingers tracing the outline of her cheek and jaw, and he's not sure who the hand belongs to, who gives the order of his fingers to skim across her blue curls and whose touch she leans into.

_But she must know_, says the voice, _there are tears in her eyes_, and he kisses those tears away, tasting salt and raindrops, and then she lets out a breathy sob, and her eyes are glassy and he can see darkness smiling at her from behind him and the voice whispers her name.

However, it's _him_ who presses kiss after kiss against her moist lips, moist with tears and snow and desperation, and his hands grab at her sides, at her loose shirt, not the voice's. It stays silent, just for a few moments, so he breathes like a drowning man, treasures her touch, her long fingers against his cheekbones, calloused skin against dark flesh, and her lips pursed to his, but it's also _him_ who swore to kill a demon, so he abandons the warmth of her flesh, of her body pressed flush to his, and drowns in the abyss.

"_Only a demon can kill a demon", says the voice, crawling in his arms and legs and head._

"But will she love a demon?" he asks silently, hesitantly.

_Yes, _he hears, and then sells his heart.

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A**/N : prompt: demons . yaaay, yet another drabble. c'mon, that prompt demanded angst. who am I do deny?**

**enjoy :D**


	3. harsh

"Why won't you even look me in the eye?" she asks at some point, when they are alone and the night falls heavy around them. The beach was deserted, the sand still warm from the heat of the day and the sea lulling softly, humming an old song disguised in silence.

Gray had gone outside to clear his head, the heat in the house far too stifling for his taste and, although the night wasn't nearly cold enough for his taste, it had helped him some.

Until his thoughts went back to her, at least.

And yet here she was, dressed in pajamas, arms crossed protectively around herself, body slouching and eyes sad. Why was it that whatever he did to try and protect her brought tears to her eyes? Couldn't she just let go and be safe? Couldn't she simply see what he was trying to achieve? Apparently no, not really.

The sight of her, hair tousled and lips parted filled him with heat. One look at her eyes, though, one look at the unshed tears he knew he was to blame for, made it die away instantly, only to be replaced with guilt. The familiarity of the sight hits him next, a reminder of the months they'd spent together in acutely close proximity, seeing her everyday, listening to the rasp of her voice, then the long months of hiding, of pushing her to the back of his mind during his mission - that had been the hardest part, shying away from whatever reminded him of her - and then the stories of Rainfall Village and the guilt choking him, because that was what he had reduced her to.

"You won't look at me even now," she says and his eyes snap up at her before he can stop his reaction. He wanted to avoid her gaze, he wanted to rip his eyes from her, but it was too late, a year too late for that, or so her tears whispered to him.

"I am looking at you," he manages to croak out. She scoffs softly, nose curling ever-so-slighty at his answer, the short movement of her head causing tears to slip on her cheeks. The urge to go and wipe them, kiss them away and hold her close, to never let go, is strong, so goddamn strong, but he must hold his ground, it's for her own goddamn safety, you sick fuck -

\- then there's the feel of falling snow, his parents' grave not ten feet behind and her arms around him her voice gentle and presence soothing, and now Gray hates himself more than ever.

Juvia opens her mouth, he awaits an answer, but there is only a puff of air, a trembling sigh, and she begins to cry in earnest.

She covers her mouth with the back of her hand and her gaze finally falls to the ground - and he should feel lighter, only her sobs fall each on him, weighing him down and they might as well be made of lead - she tries to calm herself, to regain her composture, but she only cries harder, and it takes every ounce of self-control he didn't know he had in him to not go to her.

But he remains rooted in place, watching her like one might watch a blank wall; only her display of emotion breaks him slowly and surely, little chunks falling by the dozens from the cracked ice structure thawing his heart.

She crouches then, sobbing uncontrollably, breathing words when she has enough air - they're questions he has no answer to and questions whose answers would mean ruining all he's trying to achieve, only hasn't he done that already? whispers a quiet little voice inside him; hasn't he, in his attempt to protect her, hurt her more than any other thing ever could?

The answer lies in her broken sobs and no, even if he'd cover his ears, he'd still hear her with that same painful clarity he sees in his ice crystals.

He struggles for words. He knows what he should do, the sounds he thinks of, the words are on his lips ('leave me alone. stay away. I don't want you near me.'); he should be harsh, cold like the bitter winter he grew up in, but these words of his, these words are wind when he feels the treacherous pull of his heart, and then it's all over.

How many steps are there? - two, three, four, five, yes there she was, sitting on the sand, arms closed tightly around herself, if only her arms had been strong enough to protect her from him, but they hadn't been, her arms are thin and frail and gleaming in the pale moonlight, and the sea roars as he falls to his knees beside her and pulls her to him.

Juvia's startled huff is lost to the sound of a wave breaking against the shore.

"You've no right to do that," she rasps, because her voice is always dry and low and quiet and at least now, Gray can't hear the thickness of tears in it, and considers himself lucky for it.

'You're right," he concedes softly, harsh words forgotten somewhere together with her sense of self-preservation, if she'd ever even possessed any, but he forgets about that as she melts into him, letting his fingers play with strands of her hair.

"I am," she answers, as if she's trying to convince herself of if, but it's hard to think quite so clearly when Gray is here and he's not pushing her away for once, and his arms are around her, and Juvia feels like she can breathe for the first time in six months.

**A/N: this is what happens if you listen to sad love song for an extended period of time. Cheers.**


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